Tears from the Son
by TwoToTangoByMoonlight
Summary: Arnold has never left the dark halls of Vault 118, no one ever enters and no one ever leaves. But then, his father did just that. Arnold is forced to flee from the vault and is joined along the way by a jaded girl named Helga and her smart tech friend Phoebe. Arnold had been craving adventure his whole life, but with nightmares at every turn, maybe the vault wasn't so bad...


Um, giving this plot bunny a chance because it's been pestering me for days. I thought I was done with my fanfiction days (writing new stories anyway), but in light of the efforts to greenlight Hey Arnold! The Jungle Movie, I've decided to give this a shot.

I like video games, but I also have had a revival of love for Hey Arnold and had this crazy thought to combine the two. I thought at first to make Helga a raider, but that doesn't suit her personality as well as an opportunistic wastelander. Suggestions and CC is very welcome.

I based vault 118 after vault 101, but used 118 as a reference to PS. 118.

This is unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine and I own neither Fallout, nor Hey Arnold.

Chapter 1: [Game Start]

.

.

.

How does one describe the kiss of sunlight on their cheek to someone who has never left the shadows? How do you describe the sound of thunder and real rain pattering down to broken earth to someone who has never viewed its power? What about the feeling of the dirt beneath your feet as you wander? Or the smell of gunsmoke and blood hanging heavy in the air, thick and choking?

How indeed.

Arnold knew what sunlight was of course, who didn't? Sunlight: the light that shines from the sun. Sun: the star around which the Earth orbits. The list of definitions could be traced back for as long as a person wished to, but what did that really mean? He'd seen Holovids of it, sat through the droning lessons, despite Mr. Simmons doing his true best to engage the students. But the problem remained,

what DID the sun feel like?

They were just words, useless and hollow, they tasted like dust when he said them. Dusty from lack of use, dusty from the old air filter systems that were on their last legs pumping out the air he breathed, dusty from being hidden away from the light of day. What even was day? Or night? There were only cycles deep in the vault. The vault. Where you were born, you lived, and when you died they probably recycled you into the protein vats. After all, what would they do with a body down here? Bury it? Cremate it? No it was much more convenient to use every last bit of the human that worked their lives here, toiling away to maintain a prison, a cage. While not a pretty cage, it was a safe cage, and that was all that mattered, despite the monochromatic walls that surrounded the inhabitants.

Arnold sighed, trying to rein in such maudlin thoughts, being too emotional and "sentimental" the Overseer would say. _Daydreamer_ spat like some grotesque word that deserved derision and contempt.

'And why not daydream?' Arnold thought, it's not as though there was anything else to do down here. It was boring, but it was safe, and while Arnold ached in ways he couldn't explain to leave the vault, he knew that there was a reason they remained underground. Even if it left a bad taste in his mouth.

His early years were a blur, as it was for most young children. He'd been born of course, but he was never to remember his mother's face, apart from one holo his father had kept.

Stella, named for a star. Arnold's father said that she was much like a shooting star, a burning brilliant streak of life and energy, before fizzling out in the cold of space. And while Arnold had never seen the sun with his own eyes, or even stars, he only had to think of the way his father's face lit up with this inner light, glowing from inside to realize that the emotional warmth could be what real sunlight felt like.

Miles was a valuable man to the vault, one of two doctors that lived in the vault, mainly because no one else had scored well enough on the G.O.A.T to take over the practice, not until Arnold anyway.

Arnold hadn't been upset, per say, at the result the G.O.A.T had given him, despite Mr. Simmons halting explanation that the G.O.A.T really meant nothing and he could give it to him again, but Arnold felt that working with his dad would be great. And really, Arnold did like helping people, even if he was only using a third of his medical training (the little he had) setting Mrs. Vitello's broken wrist.

He enjoyed helping people though, the light that came to their faces was the only true light he could see and each brief flicker of life was something worth hoarding close and keeping safe.

Life was pretty ordinary alright. Like clockwork sometimes even. He'd start his day early at around 7 "in the morning" and end his shift at around 3 "in the afternoon" while his father closed the clinic. Most of the time, nothing happened. Sure, you had that odd injury, like someone managing to singe off their eyebrows and blind themselves while trying to fix some part of the reactor. Or that pipboy engineer boy Eugine that managed to somehow "fix" a pipboy into nearly cutting off the owner's arm, that had been a rather eventful day. But for the most part, it was a case of the sniffles, or a hang nail, or God above forbid, a sprained finger.

Maybe Arnold was too spoiled, that he didn't appreciate the slow days, didn't appreciate that fact that worse he had to deal with was the occasional case of someone detaching a finger, or spraining an ankle. But he was 18 years old and for the life of him couldn't imagine spending his whole life down here in these dingy halls, flitting about like some ghostly shadow.

The Overseer made it seem like even the very sight of the outside would cause your heart to explode, that the only way to survive was to obey and you. had. to. obey. There was no alternative.

It was the end of his shift, he was tired of cataloging med-X and rad away. With a relieved sigh, he shut the small safe secured in the wall. Their stores were fine, they were always fine, they'd always _be_ fine.

Maybe he'd go meet up with Lila, the Overseer's daughter. They were childhood friends, and once, Arnold had thought that he'd loved her. She had been something colorful to look at in the gloom, her hair flashing red even in the flourescent flickering lights. Her teeth white and flashing, her eyes a sparkling green; there was so little green down in the vault.

Arnold hmmmed to himself as the hatch doors swooshed open, a brief flicker of dead air caressing his face in a mockery of a breeze. It was stale, recycled, but safe. Safe was good after all, safe meant that he wasn't dead. What was a little recycled air? He should be greatful,

"Greatful that I'm not bleeding out in a ditch in the irradiated wasteland," he muttered like an oath, something that had been rattled off at him since he was born.

Safe, not pretty, but safe.

He walked the familiar steps to the lower residence halls. Normally he'd head for the atrium, but today he felt like he might just go home and sleep. Maybe he'd turn on some music, the few precious disks he had of it. Two pieces of what before the war had been called "smooth jazz" and a few other pieces. Music had become the only escape he really had. No new books, nothing that hadn't been approved by the Overseer and the Overseer before him, so only the last dredges of music that had managed to escape their care.

He glanced furtively around, looking for any signs of Wolfgang. The brute of a boy had been a thorn in Arnold's side since they were practically born. His birthday party when he'd turned ten and was given his pipboy, all of school, and thought he'd been less of a pain, there was still an occasional fight. Arnold laughed out loud to himself, his voice echoing brokenly off the cold metal walls, a hairdresser was what Wolfgang was apparently destined for, what an interesting turn of events that had been.

He made it to his room safely, the spartan apartments set aside for his father and himself was rather bare, even by vault standards. Only a small living space, with a coffee table that never was used for what it was designed for, bore the weight of paperwork and medical books. Two twin dressers stood to the right and in them would be the neat blue and yellow Vault 118 jumpsuits that all the inhabitants wore; like shackles, like brands.

Arnold shook his head once more and headed for his bedroom. It was a tiny space, big enough only for a bed to fit his 6 foot frame and not much else. Though not built like Wolfgang, who'd somehow managed to be so bulky despite no real means for exercise, Arnold was a respectable height and strength for a teen his age. A good diet his father would say, good genes, and a safe enviroment to grow.

He flicked his pipboy on and tuned it to the only station the Vault had beside the endless droning of the accomplishments of the Overseer and drifted off to sleep crooning the words of the song as he stared listlessly up at the cracks in the metal above him,

"I don't want to set the world on fire..."

.

There was no sun here, at least, not any quality feel good namby pamby sunlight. What little came through the constant overcast was weak and filtered, a pale wisp of what it once might have been.

The smell of rot and death was a constant companion, along with that faint always present scent of burning ozone, as though the very crust of the Earth was still burning years, 200 to be exact, after the bombs had fallen.

Before the war destroyed everything.

Helga shielded her eyes against gritty wind that blew without check over the barren landscape. Twisted stunted trees bore up from the Earth like stubborn bones, picked clean by nuclear blast than calcified by age. There was no real true green, what small scrubs and brush were present were a sickly brown and yellow, as rotted as the bodies that could often be found decaying over them.

Such was life, it was hard but you had to grow harder. Behind her, she heard the soft breathing of Phoebe, the only person she truly trusted in this world. She'd saved the budding scientist years ago from being raped by raiders. Under most circumstances, Helga might have not bothered to fight the crazy pyschos, but no person deserved to be a plaything for them, she'd seen some of the leftover "art" after they had moved from a base.

She was a wastelander, a term that was just about as bland as the land around her, but it was useful and short, just about the right length for the attention that people could give you out here. She was a scavenger, a bottom feeder, living off the ancient ruins of a civilization that was dumb enough to blow themselves and every else up. What a bunch of assholes, they ruined the whole damn planet and the generations to come that had to live in it, the selfish bastards had the luxury of being blown up.

Survival wasn't so much a thought as it was an instinct. Find some place safe, a place that could be fortified, a place that could be set with traps for the unwary, a place where you didn't have to look over your shoulder every minute but instead every few hours, which was a damn vacation compared to what her normal day outside the base was like.

It wasn't much, she thought grimly as she approached their home. It was almost literally a hole in the ground, but once you explored deep enough, one might happen upon an underground bunker, just like Helga once had while bleeding out from a gunshot wound and lacking stimpaks.

Somehow she survived, no not somehow, she was Helga G. Pataki and nothing would kill her before she gave it fucking permission to. It was stubborn pride at this point, she wouldn't let this damn wasteland kill her like everything else it touched.

As they approached the entrance, she gave a slight signal to Phoebe who stopped behind her, head cocked and eyes as vigilant as Helga's own blue. They had to be careful when they went to the base, if anyone saw them...

Helga listened, the air was quiet and so very still. Each breath inhaled ancient debris and death, death so old it permeated the very soil till all that was left was its grim legacy.

"Alright Pheebs, you first, I'll follow."

"Going," she whispered and like a wraith seemingly disappeared into the ground and stone. This was just an optical illusion of course, the entrance was too camouflaged for any person to happen upon it unless they had the luck of Satan himself, which Helga did.

Helga glanced around once more, dried itchy sweat flaked uncomfortably against her skin under leather armor, she could feel the last trickle of it at her brow, threatening to sting her eyes along with the near constant dust in the air. She clenched her fingers around her spiked knuckles, Ol' Betsy on one hand and The Five Avengers on her other. She wasn't a big enough dumbass to rely only on her fists and at her right hip was a holstered 10mm pistol, which were common as fucking dirt which meant they were easy to repair, and slung across her back was a hunting rifle. Not much fire power, but it was enough for when it mattered. As long as a person played it safe in the wasteland, there wasn't much need for anything heavier.

'Safe,' she gave an empty laugh, watching the gloomy horizon, 'what a fucking joke.'

Oh, but the slight bit of brave light that managed to pierced the heavy clouds was a sight to see, its small reaching fingers brushed tenderly against her cheek. The world was silent, holding its very breath in the pre-dusk bloom of night and she gazed above her, imagining the tapestry of stars that would dot the inky sky.

Such brief moments of beauty were a balm for her soul, as tattered and patched as it was, those small points of lights gave her hope. Hope that someday, she'd be able to enjoy the silver twinkle of stars without having to keep a grip on her gun. What would that be like? It seemed like the night sky was the only thing that wasn't ruined. During the day it seemed like the clouds over the atmosphere and dust from crumbling metropolises did its utmost best to mute it, but at night the whole sky seemed clear. It was as though the heavens were mocking her, showing her something so beautiful that it managed to find that small part of her that wasn't a smoking ruin of a heart and it cradled it close; nurturing it.

She was an old soul in a young body, Phoebe had said once, but each day if felt like the body was finally catching up.

With one last bitter snort, she turned and stomped down into the bunker, it wasn't much but damn it if she wasn't glad to see the dark interior of it.

There were two raised twin beds on opposite sides of a hastily constructed dais, it squeaked every time one of them rolled over, but the plus was they were off the ground from, ugh, rats. Helga was a bona-fide badass, but she could never deal with rats, and fucking molerats? Yeah, those things could go die in a fire any day.

The mattresses were bare, but Helga refused to sleep on one that looked like it lost a violent war between gangers and several different types of body fluids staining it. Enough Abraxo cleaner and elbow grease had made them decent enough, and a good drying outside on one of the precious few days the sun graced the Earth with its heat helped rid it of the smell of dank armpit. Blankets were folded at the foot of the bed neatly, sure they were threadbare but they got the job done.

Heh, it was like the story of her life. She was a little threadbare too, working just enough to still be useful.

"Helga?"

The blonde turned and hissed slightly as light flared into existence, shining bright from that pipboy that was attached to her friend's slender wrist. Born on the outside of any of those fancy vaults and never having the luck to run across one, Helga hadn't known much about the enigma that was a pipboy, other than the fact they were useful as hell. Detailed inventory lists, able to keep track of data files, able to listen to music anywhere, VATS, which Helga was happy her friend had because without it Phoebe couldn't hit the broad side of a Brahmin.

"Yeah Pheebs?"

"I'm gonna light the lamps and start reconstituting some of these rations," her eyes flickered to the dried soup boxes she held in her small hands.

Helga couldn't help the face she made, "Pheebs, I know you've said they're safe, but aren't they 200 years old? How can anything that old be safe to eat?"

Phoebe smiled and opened her mouth to launch into another long explanation about preservatives, radiation, and sealed containers but Helga waved her off tiredly, "No I get it Pheebs, I'll just trust you and your wasteland magic," she gave the other girl a tired but genuine smile and went over to collapse in a chair near the small beat up table in the center of the room.

Holy hell, every muscle ached. She wasn't a naturally brawny girl, she'd put on a little muscle through necessity, but honestly she wasn't going to be wearing power armor any time soon. She was thin from lack of consistent food, but had curves that mother nature stubbornly refused to let her avoid. It wasn't that she hadn't wanted breasts and hips or anything, but it was easier when you could pass as a boy from a distance, raiders might still go after any piece of ass they could find, but others would leave well enough alone. Still womanhood would not wait for any girl and while she was no buxom goddess, she did have respectable curves that she buried beneath her restricting leather armor.

Phoebe herself, while tiny, was well proportioned through out, dainty in way but vicious when her back was to the wall and she had an energy pistol in her hands. Somehow she made something that Helga would have sworn only shot multi-colored tennis balls into something deadly by going usually for the eyes or an open mouth. Yeah it may not kill you through your armor, but a burnt throat was typically bad for breathing.

Eventually more soft light flared in the base as Phoebe turned on the lanterns and busied herself near a fire pit. Helga managed to pry her weighted lids open and began the grudging task of removing her armor, bit by bit until she could really breath and even the dead air felt great against her skin.

After removing her armor, she'd examine it for holes, patch whatever needed to be patched, then oil it with careful attention. Well maintained armor was the difference between "just a wound" and "just plain dead".

And then she'd slurp down whatever Phoebe managed to scrounge from their supplies and pass out for a few hours.

That thought warmed her enough to give her a small burst of reserved energy, the last she really had to spend for the day.

She was in the middle of polishing her cuirass when Phoebe shoved a dented metal bowl beneath her nose. Despite being 200 years old and boxed dried soup, the scent of trace nutrients had her nose twitching and mouth salivating.

Hunger was enough of a spice for anything, really.

She tossed another smile at Phoebe as she slurped down her meal in record time. "Tomorrow we have to talk about what we're doing next, but tonight, I think I'll turn in early."

The dark haired girl nodded, her dark eyes glittering with trust and contentedness.

They finished their soup slowly after that, each mouthful sipped in an effort to make it last longer, to go further, but it was only an attempt to trick their tired minds into being full. She would have to try another run soon, despite both of them hating it. There wasn't any other way to survive though, they were already down to their last stores and the purified water was almost gone.

Phoebe was a genius of course, and had jury-rigged something up to purify any water Helga brought in, but the problem was that they were out of the dirty water to purify. Helga felt her brow tighten in thought, it wasn't as though they couldn't go without food for a while if it was necessary, but to go without water? Unthinkable, not even worth the energy to think such a thought.

When she was sure she'd sucked every last bit of soup from the bowl, she sighed. She felt slightly sated at least, but also so very worn out. A dirty rag towel wrung out over and over again until there wasn't even blood left to squeeze out.

She stumbled in a haze over to her bed, sleep already close at her heels. Hitting the mattress she sighed and haphazardly covered herself up with a blanket, strangely comforted by her own scent. "Four hour watch Phoebe, then we'll switch off alright?"

"Of course Helga," but Helga was already drifting off to lecture her friend on making sure they split the night watch, but she was already out by the time she formed the thought.

Phoebe sighed, if only a little sadly, at the sight of her best and only friend slumped in exahustion. "Sleep well Helga."

.

.

Right so here's the stats for the group so far, let me know if they seem to overpowered. I think they are pretty decently built though. Anyway, hope you enjoyed, I don't know when I'll get the next chapter out. I'll warn you now, I'm in college and final exams are approaching, so I'll do my best to update regularly.

Arnold:

Level 1:

Strength- 5

Perception- 6

Endurance- 4

Charisma- 8

Intelligence- 7

Agility- 5

Luck- 5

Perks: Will be getting Daddy's Boy and Swift Learner

Helga:

Level - 4

Strength- 4

Perception- 7

Endurance- 6

Charisma- 4

Intelligence- 6

Agility- 6

Luck- 7

Perks: Little Leaguer, Thief, Iron Fist

Phoebe:

Level- 4

Strength- 3

Perception- 6

Endurance- 6

Charisma- 4

Intelligence- 9

Agility- 5

Luck- 6

Perks:

Swift Learner, Educated, Intense Training (will someday have Jury Rigging)


End file.
